


Exile off Baker Street

by felicia_angel



Series: The Conductors of Light [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-21
Updated: 2012-07-01
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felicia_angel/pseuds/felicia_angel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "No Ghosts Need Apply", first in the series "The Conductors of Light". With Sam and Sherlock dead, and their friends scattered to their own corners and problems, John and Dean work together to get through their mutual grief and problems.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Starting Points

Chuck considered, looking at what he’d written, and went back to the final part, and after a moment and a drink of his scotch, he started to write again.

_While Dean knew what his brother wanted, knew what the others wanted, he couldn’t quite allow himself to do that. Lisa’s house reminded him of the year before he died, of all that he’d done to raise Sam. Everywhere that Dean went, he remembered something. A life of a hunter was one that demanded travel, and Dean had been to all parts of the US._

_So for a month, until the money ran out on his last remaining credit card, Dean tried to find a place that didn’t remind him of his father, or his brother, or that screamed of some case he’d done, some woman or man he’d been with, or that didn’t have something that demanded his attention._

_Dean’s list of contacts dried up, as he called in the last of old favors just when he saw the news about a missing politician’s kids being found, and a supposed consulting detective who was wanted for questioning. He spent his last $6 just as he saw the bit of news that reported the ‘fake genius’ had committed suicide by jumping off the side of Bart’s, and the news of his partner-hostage trying to get through the mass of reporters, and more news, of an investigation into the Detective Inspector who was now being looked into for letting that ‘fake genius’ solve his crimes._

_Dean called Bobby one last time, and asked for only enough money for a one-way plane ticket. Bobby questioned him in a gruff voice—_

\--

“Boy,” Bobby said, his voice thick with anger and a bit of alcohol, “the hell are you plannin’ on doin’? You hate flyin’. Call up Cas, he’ll get you there for free.”

“I’m not…” Dean shook his head, banishing the admission that he’d not wanted to call Cas because the last thing the Angel had said was he was going to fix Heaven, and Dean couldn’t call him from that. He’d met the last possibly living Archangel, met more than his fair share of angels and knew how big of dicks they were. He’d been the reason for Cas’ problems in the first place – he wasn’t going to give his friend more problems, more reasons to fail. Before him, Cas could at least…

“Dean?”

“He’s not answering,” Dean finally lied, “He’s probably too damned busy, making sure the Angels don’t dick anything else up. Look, I have a friend there, and…Bobby, I can’t stay here, man. I can’t.”

“You can’t stay with Lisa?”

Dean hated that Bobby and Sam’s brilliant idea of giving him a normal life meant ‘don’t talk to us, ever again, unless you’re about to die or something, that way you’ll not be tempted back into hunting ever again ever…it’s for your own good’. He had an idea that it might be how people in AA or whatever avoided alcohol, but seriously? He had little to keep him from doing his own swan dive into oblivion, and he hadn’t lived a normal life since he was four. Not to mention he kept getting kicked out of even the shitter motels for having screaming nightmares.

“Everything here reminds me of him, Bobby,” Dean finally admitted, “please…I’m not going to kill myself, but…it’s about that job we did, a month before the one in Minnesota.”

_Right before I started thinking everything could be fine if I gave myself over to Michael. Right before Adam was brought back and tortured into accepting what was supposed to be my role. Right before Cas did that kamikaze thing and only appeared back as a human and somehow didn’t blame me for anything, didn’t blame me for losing his wings or being such an ass he had to or…_

Bobby let out a loud sigh. “Alright, fine…tell me where you are and I’ll get you the ticket.”

\--

Chuck considered for a bit before continuing to write, smiling a bit and hoping he’d be able to fix some of this. He’d never meant to cause Dean so much pain, especially not now…and he could at least fix this before he headed home.

_Dean made his way to the door he’d found after only a bit of a search. He put his car in storage, and called in one last favor, this one from a minor deity he’d spared when it turned out they didn’t kill people, and gathered only enough clothing and items for maybe a week. He only had that much – everything else was his father’s, or his brother’s, or something that tends to be frowned upon when you try to bring it on a plane._

_Bobby had gotten him the ticket, and also sent him enough money that, when converted, would at least last him a month for rent and to set himself up. Dean, being Dean, figured that was the last he’d ever see or speak to Bobby. He’s very wrong, of course, but Dean often needs some things to be spelled out for him, especially when it comes to family and friends._

_The address he was going to is going to be famous, but not because Dean is going to live there. The people in the house have their own stories, their own reasons for being loved and cared for and watched by fans and critics alike. They met Dean and Sam shortly before the Apocalypse began to wear down Dean, and are about as interesting as the two brothers, and watched over by Angels as equally._

_The one Dean is visiting is named John Watson. He’s a fighter, like Dean, and hasn’t been seen as important, also like Dean. Both have problems with their self-esteem, yet both are great at their jobs. And both have just lost someone important, someone who will make them important later on._

\--

Dean managed to crash on the couch – Sherlock’s room had become a storage area for his things, when John managed to move it in – and John worried about him a bit. The younger man was obviously hurting, and just as obviously had deal with what had happened. John had to deal with it as well, but wasn’t sure if he could. He’d only ever gone out to visit Sherlock’s grave or to go to his psychologist’s, but that had not helped, and he was now avoiding her, hoping to not talk about Sherlock again, not talk about what everyone had been speaking about for a month or any of the mixed emotions he’d been having.

He had finally given up denying the fact that he and Sherlock were ‘together’. He was pretty sure everyone thought it was just him saving his strength for something else (like punching officials in front of the police that—no, he wouldn’t think of that night, of what happened), but in truth, he’d gotten to the point where he accepted that he did like Sherlock. Bisexuality could be a good thing, but the truth was he had enjoyed being with women mostly, up until Sherlock. With Sherlock…he wanted to be with him, wanted a life with this mad man, and that had all ended a month ago. Now, John was back to floundering, back to trying to figure out what to do with his life. He couldn’t ask for work, not with the few papers still looking for a story about the ‘fake detective’ and with news from Scotland Yard about the inquiry into the cases Sherlock had helped Lestrade and a few others solve meaning they were under investigation. Not when he knew Mycroft Holmes would be watching him and pretending to care.

Not when the world thought Sherlock was a liar, and instead he was brilliant.

It was about four in the morning when Dean woke John from his own start of nightmares with his, the two ending up in the kitchen with Dean complaining of needing a drink and John, not wanting to follow his sister into the bottle, offering tea instead.

“Want to talk about it?”

“It would take an explanation.”

John nodded as he put the cup down. “So will mine.”

Dean glanced at him, than nodded. “Ok. This was about four years ago…”

\--

John sent an e-mail to Ella with a question about Dean that was worded well enough she thought he was the one having these ‘delusions’. He realized that yes, she was a crummy psychologist, and sat back with a sigh. He had money, enough for perhaps another month in Baker Street before he’d have to leave. Mrs. Hudson was acting as if that was the worst idea in the world, and would’ve blamed Dean for it had he not fixed her oven, started repairing 221c, and managed to get a few things from a high shelf from her.

John was also pretty sure the fact that he flirted shamelessly with her and recounted the one time his brother had been someone’s ‘date’ to a high-class outing also helped gain the American some trust with Mrs. Hudson.

It was only after Dean opened the refrigerator for a second time and said, “So, our choices are cheese and suspect ham…and we’re running out of tea,” that John decided to finally go outside and to the shop. Dean, apparently also feeling cooped up after a week of getting used to the time difference and their early-morning talks, followed to help. They stopped in to check on Mrs. Hudson, who waved them off before the duo headed to the Tesco’s.

Dean mostly went after the meats and such, though he also looked over some of the desserts and frowning at some of the names. John chuckled, the two quickly counting up what they had and what they had for food before heading over to the pin machine, John frowning at the paper with his photo on it before Dean snagged it, reading the front cover as John began to check out, then opening it up to read a bit inside and shaking his head. He ended up buying the rag when John had finished and was leaving, helping him with the groceries and looking at the mild glare.

“I don’t know the other side of the story,” Dean pointed out, “and as someone who’s been on the receiving end of this, I can say that it’s fulla holes.”

John manages a weak smile and retreats to put things away as Dean reads the article, the two quiet right before noises start outside. John tries to ignore it, knowing exactly what it is.

Dean doesn’t, and looks outside, then to John before walking out the door and downstairs.

John doesn’t have the heart to stop him, listening instead as the door opens and he hears Mrs. Hudson enter.

“Hey,” he hears Dean shout, voice commanding and loud. The voice of someone used to rallying people who only believe him because something had just tried to kill them and they don’t know what, the voice of someone who’s been to Hell and back, who was chosen through genetics and Fate to be the Vessel for an Archangel. “I’m curious, who’s in charge of this…well, this?”

That got a few chuckles and for some to quiet down, the damned woman reporter coming up. John tries to drown her out as Dean listens, waiting.

“So you decided it would be incredibly rude and wonderfully attention-getting to stage some sort of protest outside of the house of a guy who’s best friend just died.” Silence. “On top of harassing the nice elderly old lady who rents out the place and who also is grieving.” John sat in his chair, trying to not listen but Dean’s voice was carrying and somehow, John felt he needed that. “Yeah, lady. You’re going for the truth. How about this? If you guys are in front of our house and obstructing the way we can get in, those fine, upstanding young uniforms who _aren’t doing jack_ can come arrest you. Because I live here too, and I’m going to take offense to the noise, the fact that I can’t get out of my own house to get needed food, or the fact that you’re a damned vulture.” The reporter started to protest as Dean finally said, “Seriously, police? She’s being obstructive and unless she’s got you here to make sure she has the right to this little protest, I’m filing charges, and I’m reporting you two.”

John waited as the noise died down and Dean closed the door, John looking up from where he’d been looking at Sherlock’s empty chair. “Thanks.”

“You do realize that if anyone recognizes me from the American newspapers or FBI’s most wanted, I’m blaming her?”

It started a bit of a laugh out of John, right before he found himself crying. Dean let him, holding him when needed and not commenting on it afterwards, instead letting out a breath and saying, “I know Mrs. Hudson needs us here…but…”

John let out a sigh. “I already talked to her. Sherlock’s rent is paid, but mine isn’t. She says she could overlook it, or at least make sure that it counts as mine, but I can’t do that. And…it’s getting harder to stay here.”

Dean had been here a month, and his own money was running out, John knew that much. This conversations had turned fiscal once John realized he was back to living off his pension.

“There’s only so many places we can live,” John said, “and…no offense, but most of them are the slums.”

Dean smiled a bit at him, like he should’ve expected that. “I only lived in the suburbs once, and that was for a case. The rest of the time, it was cheap motels and abandoned homes. Trust me, I think I can take your slums.”

\--

The next day, after talking to Mrs. Hudson and finding a place that would be good for them both, even if Dean took one look and declared to be the ‘best-looking slum he’d ever been in’, they returned to pack and found Mycroft Holmes sitting in the living room.

John was not going to deal with Mycroft. He’d not spoken to him since the Incident, and was not about to speak to him now. He instead went upstairs, Mycroft calling after him about being ‘rude to a guest’. John left Dean to deal with the elder Holmes, and wished him luck. The man had managed to deal with Sherlock during the Baskerville case, and John knew that underneath his hard exterior, Dean was at least as smart as John was, but also good at other things. John could and often did get to the point or ask the right questions, which was good for a doctor or a surgeon when dealing with patients. He was good with a gun and had a moral compass that was gray, though not as gray as Sherlock’s had been, but it was one that had helped direct Sherlock away from Moriarty, and John would count that as a plus.

John was not sure, but he suspected that if he’d ever made a deal with a crossroads demon, he’d be the second Righteous Man to shed blood in Hell. And that would only be if he got a go at Moriarty.

\--

“Ah, Dean Winchester,” Mycroft said, looking over at the man. Dean Winchester was not as tall as Sherlock or Mycroft, but he had bulk and confidence that made up for it. His eyes were curious and guarded as he walked in, wearing combat boots and an outfit that was more fit for his last job as a traveling serial killer then for being in London, caring for John Watson.

“Hey,” Dean said, moving to take Sherlock’s seat and stretching out with a bit of a groan, “you must be that older brother of Sherlock’s he mentioned.”

Mycroft frowned. He knew Sherlock had spoken to Dean and Sam Winchester, along with the man who had been missing and presumed dead, Jimmy Novak, while at Grimpen on that case. He also knew they’d uncovered a great deal of misuse of funds while at Baskerville, but Mycroft had taken care of that. What unnerved him a bit was the knowledge that Dean knew anything about him – Dean Winchester was notorious for being able to get to places he shouldn’t be able to, and part of a larger group of people the FBI wanted to get their hands on, and often had little success keeping in prison. Dean had broken out of at least one maximum security state prison, as well as managed to convince a group of people to let him go and even report him as dead.

“Ok, you got a look that says that’s a bad thing and you’re here to give me the whole ‘if you hurt John Watson, no one will ever find the body’ speech.”

Mycroft frowned and schooled his features. He’d forgotten how to deal with people like this – Sherlock’s death and all that followed was not helping either. “I doubt you need it.”

Dean chuckled a bit. “Well, we’re both older brothers, so we can cut the bullshit, right?” Mycroft frowned at the curse but nodded.

“Very well. My brother tasked me with watching out for John Watson, after an…incident, following the first real confrontation between himself and Moriarty. I have done what I could, but unluckily I…failed to save my brother.”

Three snipers, and none of them were pointed at Mycroft. They had been pointed at Lestrade, who was under heavy scrutiny now and dealing with too much publicity for Mycroft to make it quietly go away; at Mrs. Hudson, who had always offered him tea despite his yelling at her, who had treated Sherlock as a son in a way their parents never had; and at Doctor John Watson, the enigma of a man that neither Holmes had figured out, who invited a serial killer into his home and let him sleep on the couch, and who now sat across from Mycroft, waiting but with a look that said he _understood_.

“You know what my dad told me, last thing before he died?”

Mycroft frowned at that, wondering where this was going, and shook his head. He knew little of John Winchester, save what the FBI file had told him, and he wondered what type of a son Dean was.

“He told me that I had to watch Sam…because if he did the wrong thing, I had to be the one to kill him.” Mycroft felt his grip tighten on his umbrella, amazed at the confession. “When I was four, he told me to take care of my brother, to run out of a burning house while he went to get mom.” Dean paused, breathing in and looked back at Mycroft. “You didn’t fail your brother. You _crucified_ him and took your thirty pieces, and now you’re coming over here in the hopes we have some nice rope so you can crawl into a corner and hang yourself.” Mycroft watched the man stand, ready to call for backup if needed, Dean finally saying, “Your brother did something he shouldn’t have done because you got too damned cocky. I read about that whole magic trick the bastard criminal pulled off. You know what I woulda done to get you to believe there was some code or whatever? I would’ve paid off a few guys really, _really_ well…guys who needed it and who no one else knew about or could easily find out about. Made a debt go away, or get them better play-dates with their kids. That sort of thing. But no. The man’s a damned genius, it has to be a code, doesn’t it?”

Mycroft knew that now. He’d figured it out when the killers had been saving Sherlock…after Sherlock had jumped. The footage was not pleasant.

“And you came here in the hopes I _would_ try something, or that John would. You wanted us to tell you off.” Dean let out a short, barking laugh. “Get the hell out.”

Mycroft slowly stood, then said, “As one older brother to another…where is Sam?”

Dean froze, and Mycroft said, very quietly, “There are schools of thought which said Judas was Jesus’ most beloved disciple, and confidant. That he knew what would happen, as Jesus was the profit, and took the silver because Jesus told him what would happen. He took the role of villain in order to ensure Jesus would be the Savior.”

Dean sighed. “Yeah. And Lucifer is a misunderstood guy, not at all a spoiled brat who wishes Dad hadn’t brought home the new baby.” Mycroft looked at Dean when he said that, getting Dean to shake his head. “My brother Sam committed suicide. My half-brother, Adam, went with him after being tortured to the point that even Stockholm Syndrome wouldn’t have explained what was going on. I spent a month trying to adjust before I came here to make sure John was ok. He’s not. You’re not helping. Now,” Dean stepped up closer to him. He was shorter then Mycroft but physically stronger, and his hand had moved closer to the umbrella, one of Mycroft’s few good weapons (for all it was just an umbrella) and his eyes were dark and, frankly, far scarier then Moriarty’s had been, “get out before I throw you out.”

\--

John was…doing alright. He guessed he was. They had moved in to the harsher, trashy area and now they had to find something to sustain them. Dean had been working on a derelict car that no one claimed and that, apparently, most of the local hooligans thought he couldn’t fix. But right now, they were moved in, and John had no job, and no prospects. He was back to where he’d been right before Sherlock had shown up and been brilliant and a whirlwind that had pulled John in even before they both realized it.

Dean grabbed the glass of booze from his hand, looking at John as the older man frowned at him. He’d forgotten how bad liquor was for him sometimes, or that he’d disapproved of it because family history meant he was more prone to addictive tendencies.

_And you lived with a former drug addict who could tell everything about you and who stole your things and gave you no privacy and who said in his letter that he was a fraud when he wasn’t, he was brilliant and wonderful and--_

“I’d say you’re about as bad as your sister, but she’s trying to kill her liver,” Dean muttered, downing the glass that John had made for himself before making a face. “Ok, time for bed.”

“I was his note, you know that?”

“Yeah, you mentioned it. I also mentioned Sam’s stupid-ass idea.”

John chuckled a bit, leaning against Dean. He’d never realized how _warm_ Dean was. “Yeah. It was stupid. None of them kept to it, either.”

“Bed, John. You’re done.”

John did something stupid instead. He managed to move around and kiss Dean. He knew it was stupid – Dean was too macho, too full of bravado, too much the type that obviously had only taken women to bed.

He was surprised when Dean held him and kissed him back, before moving apart and looking at him. John blinked, confused.

“You call me Sherlock,” Dean breathed out, “and I’m decking you.”

“Trust me, if you say--.”

Dean kissed him breathless, and not for the first time, some part of John wondered why he didn’t want to say the name of that Angel that had been with him, of the one that had saved him from Hell. John knew thinking the name didn’t work well, and he was sure Dean had thought enough about him that if the angel’s ears weren’t burning, then obviously he was ignoring him for all the wrong reasons.

“Deal,” Dean breathed out when they broke apart for air before kissing him again. John was happy for his hold on him, for the fact they were almost to the bedroom, and for the warmth when he’d never said anything, when he’d wanted to and never did.

He should’ve. He should’ve said it, with the few minutes he’d had before Sherlock jumped. Maybe that would’ve stopped him. Maybe that would’ve kept him here.

John turned his drunken mind back to Dean, and feeling, and so much skin and heat and---

\--

Dean had been called a hedonist before. He’s been called a masochist as well, but Hell had not left him with a taste for punishment either. Nope, that was all his own damned psyche…Hell just gave him an excuse.

The point was, Dean liked certain things and tried to get as much of them as he could. He liked being around people – while he did Hunt on his own, it was never something he enjoyed doing. He hated silence and would fill it with Magic Fingers from cheap hotel beds, or Dr. Sexy, MD on television, or Metallica on the radio, or whatever else. Hunting had given him something to focus on, and while he had told people like Gordon that he’d known it was his calling at sixteen, that had been both true and false.

He knew he was going to be a Hunter at sixteen not because he’d been killing a werewolf and not thinking about girls or prom or anything, but because when he got home, he realized that he _couldn’t_. He wasn’t allowed to think about that because they lived in a motel and he was taking care of Sammy and his dad. He was a Hunter until his dad and Sam left, then he would find someone else and Hunt with them. It was a simple equation that no one, save Sam, had bothered to try and mess with. Dad only said ‘when we get the guy’ but never finished it with ‘we’ll be fine, normal, finally out of it’.

Dean liked food. He knew the importance of calories and food and ate as much of it as he could because sometimes Dad didn’t get back in time, sometimes there wasn’t enough money, and every last bit of it went to Sam. Sam would not go hungry. Of course, Sam noticed that when he was ten and started eating salads and demanding healthy food. It was cheaper, and left some stuff for Dean…Dad complained, but Dean could see what Sam was doing. The fact that Dad wouldn’t indulge his son with pie every meal, but Sam _would_ , had only made things easier when Dean had seen them all together. He loved his father, he really did, but Dean and Sam worked better together. Yeah, Sam had his issues with Hunting or with what Dean wanted to do or acted, but after Ruby and the months apart, Sam and he had managed to talk. Sam still ate salads and healthy, and frowned at the burgers Dean ate, but he always allowed Dean his pie or dessert.

When Dean had discovered sex, it had been something he’d had to look into on his own. Dad was not around enough and his rule seemed to be no girlfriends, and definitely no boyfriends. Of course, Dean had also grown up without Dad around and knowing he had to watch the news. He and Sam had Clinton to thank for a lot, and the internet to thank for more.

Dean had taken to sex like he’d taken to learning about demons and witches and ghouls – he read up, he learned, and he spoke to others. If he didn’t know something about a demon, he’d find someone who did. So, for sex, he’d found a list of the “popular sluts” and, instead of just sexing them up like everyone else, had spoken to them. He’d gained a reputation, mostly because, again, research meant you spoke. You learned about women and studied every inch of them until they were screaming so loudly the next door neighbors were pounding on the side of the wall.

A young dude in class, in a school they’d only been in a week and that was the last of them for Dean, had talked Dean up as well, after he’d gotten some bullies to back off the “fag”. He’d offered something and, like with women, Dean asked first.

So, in that way, Dean learned. He learned what men liked, what women liked, and what he liked. He learned he was, in Sam’s words, an “equal opportunity slut”, but that he preferred women. Not because he was that macho, but mostly because explaining he was bisexual to anyone who thought that was code for ‘I’m really gay but pretend I’m not’ to ‘I’m easy’ was not one of those things you advertise.

Dean was a bit surprised to find out John was about as bisexual and, even when drunk, about as talented. The guy looked like he was five steps away from being cuddled half the time, you tended to forget he was a beast with a gun, a damned fine doctor, and a guy who apparently knew his way around…well, everything.

John woke up with a hangover from last night’s drink and sighed when Dean handed him a glass of water, then a cup of tea. “Not as good as yours,” Dean admitted, “but I’m a coffee guy myself.”

John nodded, then sighed as he sat down at their somewhat used table. “So…are we…um…”

“Not before you’re headache’s gone,” Dean said, moving to make some light breakfast for the doctor, “trust me, tea first.”

John slowly nodded, downing the water and sipping on the tea before he walked over to where Dean was making the breakfast. “I wasn’t thinking about him.”

Dean sighed, looking over at him from where he was cooking up scrambled eggs. “I know. But it’s not like I was thinking of mine either.”

John gave him a look before he asked, “Why won’t you say his name, Dean? I know we’re both…being incredibly cliché, wishing for the ones that…well, that…”

Dean turned off the stove, trying not to get angry. John didn’t know the whole story, despite the talks, and Dean knew that there were things about John and Sherlock’s relationship he didn’t know about either. John talked around the first incident with Moriarty…Dean was tired of dancing around why he couldn’t say Cas’ name, or even think about the angel.

“Your guy didn’t give up his whole family for you,” he pointed out, glad the eggs were done, even if he’d lost his appetite, “and your guy was…at least he didn’t have to use someone else’s body, have to go and walk around in some poor guy from Illinois who had a wife and kid to go back to. The hell type of person would I be, to ask for something like that?” he wouldn’t think about Hell, or what happened to him there. “I’ve done a lot of bad things in my life, John. I know where I’m going. But I’m not adding in rape to that list. Nothing justified me wanting the body of a married guy who had only agreed ‘cause he thought there was a God.”

John frowned at him, confused and worried. “Dean…”

“Here,” he pushed the plate of scrambled eggs at him, “I need to work on that car.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and John attempt to deal with their new lives. Dean makes a few friends with Sherlock's Homeless Network. The Case of the Cardboard Box is looked into from afar, and Dean gets found out by someone he really, REALLY wishes was dead.

John visited Mrs. Hudson every Sunday, when she and John went to visit Sherlock’s grave. There was enough money from Sherlock’s family to keep the headstone clean, something that John was glad about. He doubted he could handle seeing it defaced. The media outlash against Sherlock had not helped John, and he’d avoided any form of media that he could.

Dean managed to fix the car after an exhausting day, one where John was sure he worked on it in order to work through his anger at himself and John for bringing up the angel.

John tried to not think about it. If he thought about it, he’d think about Baskerville, and the demonic dog, and Sherlock…

So really, it was easier at times to give Dean what he wanted and not speak about it. They talked about John’s time in the military, about the odd things he’d seen in Afghanistan during his tours. Dean taught him everything he could about Hunting, telling him stories of his life. John disliked some of them, and wondered about Dean’s father and his opinion on how to raise kids. John hadn’t had the best childhood, but his didn’t involve being taught from go that the only thing you were good for was taking care of your younger, obviously smarter brother or to hunt and save people other then yourself.

So Dean fixing the car and making it run was a good thing, even with the local kids and a few that John recognized as part of Sherlock’s homeless network (who he helped out whenever he could, which was getting him at least tips and quiet for where they were living now) seemed surprised at it.

That had been something else that John couldn’t quite understand about Dean. He was good with people. The kids had gone out to ask him questions on that day and, despite being mad and depressed and probably ready to tell everyone off or let the world end, Dean had allowed the group to stay, and even taught them some about cars. John had seen a few attempt to hotwire it and Dean, being Dean, telling them that a) that was illegal and to kindly not do that to his car and b) that if they were going to make such a mess-up of it he wasn’t going to teach them the _proper_ way to get a car started.

That Sunday, Dean came with Mrs. Hudson and John to the grave. Mrs. Hudson cried about them not being there, and Dean offered that he would come over and help out whenever he could. Dean had applied in various places for work, mostly construction or something with his hands, and John had tried to find something but always ended up being asked, “You’re _that_ John Watson?”

He hated it. He wanted something that might help, that could give him more to live off of, not just having to dodge questions about his life with Sherlock, or Sherlock’s death, or anything like that.

So when a nurse, who’d somehow gotten laid off because of unfair treatment, tried to open up a clinic for the people in the area, John jumped at the chance for work. Dean had managed to get a part-time work at a mechanic nearby after he’d shown off the car he fixed, and was also looking for more part-time work as well. Of course, most of the women in the building had taken to trying to chat them up as well, though John was sure the few single mothers who were doing so also did it because Dean tried to be a good influence on the kids.

Which he was, something that had gotten John and the nurse, Mary, to laugh a bit whenever he brought one in because they had a cold or something similar. He’d manhandled Raz and a few others inside after he’d found them defacing a wall and it turned out one had gotten himself hurt. Raz had been sullen and angry, and apparently was ready to “spraypaint the bitch’s house” after John had caught sight of the familiar yellow paint and had gone quiet.

Dean is pissed at the kid for a week, and Raz feels it’s not worth it. But he does tell him about the little underground movement. Dean doesn’t tell John.

\--

It’s all in the news, about the lady down the way getting the box of salt with two ears in it. Raz had heard that Dean, the bloke living with the Doc, only commented something like ‘humans’, as if it was curse. Higgins, a kid who’d run away from home and who had taken to Sherlock before his death, and now was trying to take care of the rest of the kids with Dean and the Doc’s help, said that guy, Dimmock or something, was on it because the inspector that had helped out Sherlock was under investigation and now others were as well because of the problems that had been brought up during a botched arrest that night.

Raz hated thinking about that. There had been the article that wasn’t true at all (the whole _believe in Sherlock_ and _I’m with Sherlock_ campaigns showed that…really, the internet was a great place) and now there was a headstone that the Doc visited every Sunday. Raz hated it.

What he really didn’t like, though, was watching that Reily lady trying to show off when her source wasn’t even around. She was only there ‘cause that Dimmock guy had come over, looking confused when he arrived with that inspector that had been on probation. She’d tried to get in some words or ask about the whole thing, but was waved off and, because many of the people there were part of Sherlock’s homeless network, she had to run off and find news elsewhere.

The inspector-under-investigation and the Dimmock guy find Dean near another car he’s working on, this one for scraps, with some of the kids helping. One, a scrawny little kid named Victor Smith, follows Dean like a lost puppy. Higgins had told Raz that Dean once chased off some bigger kids intent on beating him up, and now Victor only felt safe around Dean. It was almost cute, in a creepy way, but Dean allowed it and tried to keep the kid busy.

Raz made his way over with Higgins in time to hear Dean say to the two, “I don’t do that anymore, alright? Go dig up someone who does, I’m through.”

“Dean, more people could die,” the inspector points out, Dean standing with his back to them. “Those were from two people, and one’s been identified as the sister of the woman who received the package. I know I don’t have the years you do, but I recognize something off, and Dimmock’s only lead has an alibi.”

Dean let out a harsh laugh. “That’s rich. One solid lead doesn’t make a case. Even I know that. Go bother someone else.”

“They weren’t kept in salt,” Dimmock finally said, getting Raz to frown and Dean to stiffen. “There were no traces of salt in the household.”

“So the people inside hate salt, big deal.”

Raz watched as the inspector-under-investigation finally said, “It’s happened before. Exact same case, only this was fifty years before. And no couple can stand living in that house. Those two were the longest. And he was a sailor, five years sober…”

“I SAID I CAN’T HELP! YOU WANT MY HELP? IT’S BETTER IF YOU PUT A BULLET IN YOUR OWN DAMNED HEAD!” Dean roared at them, for a moment looking so angry and dangerous that Raz and the few others following hide in fear. Silence makes Raz brave enough to look around and see that Dean is looking out, away from the two and stiff, his hands clenched into fists and his whole body shaking.

“I’m sorry,” the inspector said, “I didn’t--.”

“It’s not like what happened at that Hollow place,” Dean told him finally, not turning, “It’s either an angry spirit, in which case we have problems, or a poltergeist, which can be worse. You need a history on the house, figure out when the first deaths were, what happened.”

Dimmock looked unnerved, or at least unhappy. “Why?”

“So you can figure out if the person’s just crazy or if you do need my help. Because I’m not like Sherlock. I’m not going to wander in and rattle off a list of reasons someone did something. I’m not going to just get you investigated. If they find out that I’m here, they’ll extradite me to the US, John’ll go away for aiding and abetting an international fugitive, and so will Greg. That’s if you’re lucky.” Raz didn’t think he’d ever seen Dean look so damned miserable. “That’s all I can help you with, ok? Hope it’s something with a crazy lady as the happy ending.”

Dean walked away, Dimmock frowning as Lestrade sighed. “Sorry. I just thought--.”

“I think I have a new suspect. Remember, the old lady who rented out the house?”

“I’m curious what part of ‘on probation so don’t talk to me about any official or ongoing investigations’ you didn’t understand, Dimmock.”

Raz managed to look over and finally raced to where that nurse and the Doc had set up shop, the Doc frowning when he saw him. “Raz?”

“Doc, that mechanic friend of yours is scary.”

\--

Lestrade had only found out about the man because he’d managed to get information about the previous complaints. Dimmock had followed through with talking to the old lady that owned the home and rented it out, but something about the place didn’t sit well with Lestrade, and neither did Dean’s aversion to working jobs like this.

When he’d heard from Mycroft, Lestrade had almost not gone in the car, mostly on principle. He didn’t do everything that Mycroft said, but he did know that without Sherlock around to argue for him, Lestrade could easily be on more dangerous ground with the enigmatic man. It didn’t help that the wife had just left him and Lestrade really wanted to yell at someone, and who better than Mycroft? The man could lift a finger to help keep his brother’s good name out of the mud, or at least make sure Lestrade wasn’t getting as badly thrown under the bus as he was by the CS and Donovan. The CS was working like a man on a mission, and no amount of retests by Anderson or anyone else seemed to convince him. He’d called in _Jones_ of all people to head up his team. If Donovan wasn’t acting so righteous and like she’d proven something, Lestrade would’ve been sorry for her.

But getting kidnapped and asked about Dean Winchester was…different. It had allowed Lestrade to learn that John and Dean had moved out of 221b, though they visited every once in a while, and that Mycroft was certain Dean was taking advantage of John. Lestrade obviously had made a sound or shifted or _something_ because the look Mycroft leveled at him said he didn’t appreciate where Lestrade’s mind had gone.

And yes, Lestrade had thought that John needed to get laid, and Dean seemed the type to allow for a relationship without too much baggage. The fact that Lestrade had been half-certain John and Sherlock were a couple had not helped matters either.

Then Lestrade had, on pretense of getting Dimmock a new point of view for that ear case, actually seen Dean and spoken to him. It had been nearing five months since that Baskerville thing, and Dean looked like he’d been put through a meat grinder or two. He was bitter, broken, and not at all the same young man he’d met. Neither his brother nor that angel of his were in sight, and Dean’s eyes appeared far older then they should.

Lestrade didn’t like it. He’d been a bit fond of Sam, who was huge and seemed determined to smile shyly about everything, up until he had to fight, when he went cold. Between the two brothers, Lestrade could see them giving Sherlock some trouble, and Sherlock being annoyed but friendly anyway.

Dean’s look was what convinced Lestrade to look into the former complaints, and the history, before going after the man. He didn’t know if the old lady would talk, but he also wasn’t sure how someone who was supposed to be dead was walking around either. He wanted answers.

He had not expected the man to have a mean right hook or to throw him against some of the clutter on the bank, rattling Lestrade’s head and making his vision swim before he was hauled up, hurting right before a familiar voice yelled, “Drop him!”

“Who are you?” the man asked, his voice sounding strained to Lestrade’s ears before he let him go, Lestrade slumping down to see that Dean and John were striding in with guns raised, Lestrade wondering briefly where they’d gotten it.

“Just his friends,” Dean said, motioning to Lestrade as John broke off to check on him, giving him a small smile that said he’d be fine after a rest, “What’s your story?”

Lestrade slowly rose with John’s help, taking in the man that had attacked him. He was average in height, but larger in build, his hands wide and scarred, and an old peacoat covering most of him. His face and actions reminded Lestrade of a kicked dog, his eyes dark and full of sadness as he looked at Dean and the gun.

“My name’s Jim Brewer. My wife and I…we used to live in that house.”

Dean was silent, John frowning as Lestrade tried to play catch-up. “Wait, what--.”

“Fifty years ago,” Dean picked up, his voice soft, “his wife and her lover, another sailor, were found in a park. They were missing their ears.”

“Brewer pleaded guilty when he was arrested,” John added, “and said he’d sent the ears to his sister-in-law. But the package never arrived. There was enough evidence, even with the confession, to mean he was put away.”

Lestrade tried to wrap his head around one thing. “But…but you’re…”

“Cursed,” Jim said, shifting and shaking his head, “I’m cursed. I knew who done it, but I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t do that to her sisters.”

 _Oh hell, Dimmock went and arrested an elderly murderess_.

“You scared off the other couples,” Lestrade said, his mind finally catching up once he let the little things ( _like the laws of time and physics and bloody_ technology _and entered into a realm of ghosts and curses and a man who didn’t age for fifty odd years_ ), “but couldn’t get that last one out. A young woman and her husband, a sailor…just like you and your wife.”

Brewer let out a harsh, barking laugh, and if anything looking even sadder. “That woman…I wouldn’t have given her the time of day, and when I wouldn’t go be with her, when I wouldn’t be with her like she wanted, she turned my girl against me. Then, even with me trying to get us back, even when I was workin’ to make things right…they died. Under my knife, and because of me.”

Lestrade understood suddenly. “You told them, but in such a way they viewed it as a confession. That was easier to take, a jealous husband, then an adulterous sister.”

Dean nodded. “That’s not all, is it? Someone came up and told you something.”

The two men looked at him as Dean continued, “Somehow, you managed to get yourself fifty years…to save lives, or so you believed. What was the bet? What did you bet your soul on?”

There was the sound of clapping, John and Lestrade turning as Dean stayed still, not even looking. Behind them was a man in a dark, expensive coat, his hair dark and balding, his eyes briefly glowing a white-red color in the dim light as he lowered his hands and smiled.

“You can take the man out of the business, but the business doesn’t ever leave the man, isn’t that right?” the man asked, sounding cocky and smirking. “Hello there Dean.”

“Crowley.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean and John have a few emotional issues to deal with. John gets a visit from a stranger, and Dean freaks out a bit.

“I forgot how fast you make friends. That must come in handy.” Dean didn’t flinch, but he did lower his gun as Crowley looked over at Lestrade and John, then back to Brewer. “Hello there, Jim. Looks like your time’s up.”

“It is. I’m ready.”

“I doubt that,” Crowley told him, “but as we played for…extra time and a curse removed.” He gave Dean a side-long glare. “Spinster-sister was a witch. Never did figure out the truth. Trouble with grief, isn’t it? You never quite tell the truth.”

Dean glared at him, and Crowley didn’t have any doubt in his mind that the man would do all he could to kill him, so instead he spoke to Brewer. “She’s convicted already. There’s enough evidence to say you shouldn’t have died, but then again…no body, no reason.” He snapped his fingers, and Brewer crumpled like someone had cut the strings holding him up, John breaking away to check on him and frowning when he pulled open the peacoat and found only ashes.

“Dead fifty years…tends to take it out of a man,” Crowley said, smirking at John as he looked up, eyes angry. Lestrade blinked, leaning against a wall as they watched Crowley turn back to Dean. “Not going to introduce me to your friends? I’m hurt.”

“The hell do you want, Crowley? You got what you came for.”

Crowley put a hand over his heart, attempting to look hurt as Dean leveled his gun at the King of the Crossroads.

“I’m hurt, Dean, after all I did for you and your friends. Bobby’s worried, by the way. You never call, or write, one would think you jumped over to my home to get away from your own.” He glanced at John again. “Or at least to sample some of our blandest flavors, I’m not quite sure. Where do you find them, Dean?” Lestrade shifted as Crowley gave John a secondary glance. “Though, to be fair, he looks durable enough for some of your tastes.”

“I have enough iron bullets in here to make your life miserable, and if not, I can at least ruin your suit.”

Crowley turned his attention from John. “Always with that. I’ve been promoted, or am on my way, so you should have a bit more respect. Besides, I was telling the truth. Bobby is worried, as is your little an—“

The gun went off five times, all center mass, and sent Crowley backwards into the wall, eyes glowing with anger. “You damned, stupid, pig-headed--.”

“I memorized some good Latin,” Dean said with a growl, lowering the gun and glaring at Crowley, “ _Exorcizamus te, omnius immundus spiritus, ominus satanic potestas, omni—_ “

Crowley flinched so badly he slammed against the wall, then disappeared, Dean letting out a breath and looking back at Lestrade. “You ok?”

“I’ve had worse,” Lestrade said, slowly standing and frowning as the body disintegrated. “Um…”

“He was hung,” John told him, “so he’s been dead for fifty years.” He glanced at Dean, who was staring at where Crowley had been. “Dean?”

“I’m fine. Peachy, even, so can we leave before someone reports gunshots?”

\--

John was glad to find that Lestrade wasn’t that badly hurt, and even more that he had somewhere to go and someone to care for him, even if he didn’t say who. It had been a long day, with Raz’s information about Dean’s reaction to the request for help, as well as his anger at John’s insistence they _do_ find Brewer, showing off the first real sign of the dangerous man Dean could be. They had been talking for nearly two months now, since Dean had shown up and they’d moved out of Baker Street, but John knew both had only started to scrape the surface of their problems.

Dean was odd when it came to his sexual wants, at least odd as compared to some of John’s old partners. If and when given the situation, Dean would make some truly bad innuendo, and once, when Mary had casually commented about something with John, Dean had just as casually said something that made them _both_ blush, and him grin like a school child.

Outside of the bedroom, Dean was raunchy and would meet any, or even almost any, challenge given to him. Inside, with John, it was an odd sort of balance that confused John when faced with how gentle he was, and how he did all he could to please John.

John wasn’t complaining, gasping as Dean worked his hands and mouth, holding him on edge. The demon Crowley had upset Dean, and John had wanted to get his mind off what had happened.

Get both their minds off of what happened. The reporter, Reily, had apparently learned he’d moved out and was trying to make a fuss about it, but with Moriarty having disappeared or died, John only had a brief glance of how the tide was starting to slowly turn back to Sherlock’s favor in the news.

John gasped, feeling his back arc at Dean’s work. “Ah, Dean…Dean, I…”

Dean looked up, his eyes searching to make sure John was alright, giving one last lick that caused John to shiver. “You ok?”

John looked over at him, breathing heavy. “Yes, fantastic, wonderful, don’t stop.”

Dean smirked, leaning in and doing something with his tongue that left John all but babbling, pushing him closer and closer to the edge, Dean shifting so he was aligned with John, a hand wrapped around them both, John’s hands going from the sheets to grip Dean, feeling himself trembling as he did.

“I got ya, John,” Dean said as he began to move, “don’t worry. I got ya.”

John managed to get a hand on the back of Dean’s head before moving up, kissing him soundly as the other man groaned. Dean’s response to touches was one thing, but his response to touches that came from caring…it could be anything from pornographic to making John want an understanding psychiatrist. Even with the talks they had, John knew neither of them could be counted as anywhere near ‘adjusting’. He couldn’t face Mycroft or Reily, not without worrying that he’d do something to get himself arrested, if not break down at the emotional strain of it. Dean’s reluctance to even go near this case, as well as his anger at the mention of—

John’s mind short-circuited as he came, holding tightly onto Dean as he was right behind, barely managing to hold himself up right before they both collapsed back on the bed, John breathing hard and Dean shaking a bit as he lay a bit on John before rolling over, glancing and smiling at him. “You look good like that.”

John felt himself blush a bit. It was odd, how self-conscious he’d been around Sherlock didn’t translate to being around Dean. Of course, he had a bullet wound in his left shoulder that didn’t look good, due to field medicine and other problems, and Dean…

Dean’s body was sadly littered with scars, the biggest of which being a hand print on his shoulder that had the appearance of being burned on. A few others, many of them smaller or larger, were scars from a general amount of wear and tear that disturbed John, as his medical mind calculated them as the remains of being badly hurt more than once, and in a situation where Dean’s life could have easily been ended.

Dean frowned when he noticed John’s look, shifting a bit. “You’re doing it again.”

John frowned back. “I can’t just turn that part of my brain off, Dean.” He managed to turn to the side, slowly moving to nearly touch the handprint. “It’s his, isn’t it?”

Dean looked away. He didn’t like John or others touching near the print unless he was wearing clothing of some sort, and coupled with everything he’d said about his relationship with the angel that Dean wouldn’t name. “Yeah. It’s where he grabbed hold of me and dragged me out of Hell.”

John frowned, looking at it before he let out a breath as Dean looked over, reaching to trace around John’s own scar. “That looks painful.”

“I had a lot of physical therapy,” John said, “but it’ll never fully heal, at least not enough for me to work as a surgeon. I can be a GP, or help others, but my hand and arm can’t be steady for hours. If I do too much activity with it, it can be painful.”

Dean sighed, frowning as he looked at it. “Bastards used a splintering bullet.”

“Yeah. It wasn’t very nice of them.”

That got Dean to smile briefly before his face became serious, almost closed off. John hated that look, though he knew he wore it himself sometimes. “I was being serious in what I said to Lestrade and that guy. I’m bad news, John. I know I’m here for a while, but if Crowley knows I’m here, something else will find me. There’s every chance that I’m gonna get you killed.”

John shifted, looking at Dean for a moment before he finally touched the burned-on handprint, watching him flinch and look at it then John again.

“With twenty-four hours of meeting Sherlock, I shot a man dead. I ran after his cab, despite a limp no one could cure, and laughed at the antics like I’d just done something silly instead of against the law. Every case, there was a chance I would die, or be hurt, and the same went for Sherlock. I know I can’t comprehend all of the things that might happen or will come after you, but I couldn’t comprehend…” damnit, he could say the name of the man who’d frightened him, who’d ruined his life, “His name was James Moriarty. He made up a fake alias, found out information about Sherlock, and gave it to that Reily woman. He’s been gone as long as Sherlock now, and people are still trying to find him, to see if what he said was true.” John let out a breath. “You said to us Humans were worse than demons, then vampires and werewolves and anything else. I believe you because I met a person that scared me more than that demon Crowley.” He tried hard not to recall the smell of chlorine, the weight of the bomb jacket on him, the voice in his ear…

Dean shifted, moving away from John’s touch and instead propping himself up to look at him. “I mean it, John. This could be very dangerous.”

_Could be dangerous_

“I helped invade Afghanistan,” John said, swallowing at the remembered first case, at how much he should’ve realized the danger and that this would end in heartbreak. “I will manage.”

Dean let out a growl, half-frustrated and partly pleased, but also worried and saddened. John wondered sometimes who gave Dean such a low opinion of himself.

“We’ll give it a year,” John finally said, “You came here two months ago. In ten, we’ll see how we are, and go from there. Ok?”

He watched Dean slowly lower himself back onto the bed, as if realizing what that might mean, or at least like he was trying to figure something out. John briefly wondered when was the last time Dean had spent a year _anywhere_ , let alone in one spot or with someone who wasn’t related to him.

“Alright,” Dean finally said, letting out a breath, “alright. I can do a year.”

John shifted, moving to be closer to Dean. If anything, the man who normally got thrown into walls by undead creatures was very tactile and enjoyed loving touches after sex, or even while sleeping. John understood it, and was glad for it as well as he let out a breath, shifted near Dean, and fell asleep.

\--

John was on top of St. Barts, standing on the same ledge, the one that Sherlock had—

He looked back, seeing Moriarty with a dead smile, blood oozing out. John swallowed, frowning before he looked back, blinking in surprise at the man standing in front of him, blond and with a sort of perpetually bored look on his face, holding a glass of something and standing in air, looking him over.

“Huh,” the man said, frowning, “I expected you to be…” he shrugged, “well, it’s of no consequence.”

“Who are you and what are you doing in my dream?”

The man lifted his eyebrows at that, as if impressed. “So you can tell it’s a dream. Step above the rest, I suppose. I came with an offer.” He pointed down, John looking to see Sherlock’s body, broken and bleeding, on the ground below, but no one bothering to help, instead walking on or around it, tracking bloody footprints as they continued. The man, still standing in mid-air, made a sort of disgusted snort. “I don’t know why you’re mind is so full of these things. Honestly, makes it hard to speak to you.”

“That doesn’t answer my questions,” John said, shifting on the ledge. He knew what came next in the dream, he’d had it before, just not with the man before him.

“No,” the man said, sounding so neutral it made John look up at him. “I’m here with an offer.”

John looked up with a frown before shrugging. “Not interested.”

The man let out a small snort. “I doubt that. I could, you know, make this all go away.”

“I can too. It’s called waking up.”

The man stepped forwards so he was in John’s personal space, glaring at him. “I’m offering you his _life_ , you sad, sorry excuse for a human. I’m offering that you give me what I want, and I’ll bring him back, make it _right_. No more bitch of a reporter. No more Moriarty. Just cases for him to solve, enough he’ll never run off again, that his brother won’t bother you or have you watched, enough that the good Inspector will get reinstated. Everything will be fine, lovely in fact.” He shifted, tapping a finger against John’s wounded shoulder. “I’ll even fix that, while I’m at it, so you can be useful again.”

John glared at him, flinching at the touch as the man waited, eyes bright and obviously full of hope that John would say ‘yes’. John looked away, seeing the rest of London around him, feeling himself shake. He wanted to, he did, he wanted—

“Why?”

The man cocked his head, as if confused. “Come again?”

“Why? Why me? Why fix my problems?”

The man managed a sort of smile and then laughed, shaking his head, his eyes angry despite the smile. “You stupid ape. I offer to fix everything, and you ask me _why_. What sort of a question is that?”

“The right one, obviously,” John said, looking back down at Sherlock’s remains before he took the step—

John woke just before he hit the ground in his dream, feeling Dean holding him up and looking at him, worry clear on his face. John blinked at him, confused.

“What?”

“Some…something visited you. I could feel it.” Then, as if realizing the implications of this, Dean let go, sitting back on the bed and looking down. “I felt it. Something was in your head, trying to make you…trying to make a Deal.”

John didn’t like where this was going, and slowly sat up, wincing at the pain in his shoulder. He looked over and was surprised to see a finger-sized bruise from where the man had tapped him.

“There was. I didn’t get a name.”

Dean was shaking, partly with rage and partly with fear. John wondered which was worse for him before Dean let out a string of curses.

“Dean, I didn’t agree to anything! I just--.”

Dean shook his head, turning back. “John, something _found you_. Something is trying to use you, and its--.”

“He didn’t mention you,” John said, standing and moving over to Dean’s side. “He mentioned Sherlock, but not you. He said he was going to--.” John stopped, shaking his head. “It’s not important what he offered me, Dean, but it was all mine, nothing to do with you. I’m grieving. I want to…to fix this, to make it hurt less. Maybe that’s what brought him in. It’s not your fault, Dean.”

Dean was still shaking, still looked like he was reeling from how something had nearly hurt another person he cared for, and John sighed, reaching out to rub along his arm. “I’ll make us tea, and call Mary. We’ll go to the library today and look through some of those books together, ok? I know you’re still looking for a way to free your brother.”

Dean managed to let out a breath to calm himself before nodding. “Ok. Ok.”

John watched him head into the bathroom before he let out a sad sigh, and hoped they could get through this year.

\--

Half of the day was spent in the library and at various used book stores, Dean going through them like he was on a mission and John realizing how much work went into being a Hunter. Dean seemed annoyed by the amount of reading that had to be done, but also had his own system of figuring things out. John was certain this came from Sam being the one to do research and Dean being the one who simply _knew_ , and once again wondered if speaking to Dean’s father would ever be a possibility, if only so he could give him a good piece of his mind.

The few bookstores were out of the way and obviously meant to stay that way for the general public, one man giving John a confused and suspicious eye when John moved to look through the few books that weren’t dusty tomes or obscure references to instead pull out a fiction book he’d remembered reading during training, but lost after he put it down somewhere. Dean had returned from the shelves with a few that he managed to haggle out of the man with little hassle, John helping him carry them and frowning as they headed to Baker Street to check on Mrs. Hudson.

“Who’s Bobby?”

“An old friend,” Dean answered, “he’s…well, he’s more like a father to me. Dad was…Dad. Bobby’s more like _a_ father, someone who…I dunno, treated me like a kid. Dad…” Dean stopped as they got to the station. “He was different.”

John didn’t say more on the tube, not wanting anyone to overhear, and was glad to see Mrs. Hudson, Dean asking about some odd jobs that apparently she and Mrs. Turner had planned for him to do to keep him busy as Mrs. Hudson fed John tea at 221a. He had yet to really go up to his old apartment, and didn’t think he could.

Mrs. Hudson put the cup of tea down in front of him as she sat, considering, “How are you two doing, John? I know something must have happened with poor Dean, the way he acts.”

“He had a fright, that’s all,” John said, “I think he’s afraid to lose more people. But…well, we’re not the easiest people to talk to about what’s going on.”

Mrs. Hudson sighed and nodded. “I know, dear. That’s why I wish you’d move back in. It’s lonely here, and that Mycroft is always bothering me about it.” She leaned forward, whispering, “I don’t think he likes Dean much.”

“I don’t think Dean likes him much either,” John said with a shrug, “and I can’t, Mrs. Hudson. It’s…I’m sorry, I just can’t right now.”

She reached over and patted his hand. “No worries, dear. Just take care of each other, and everything will be fine.”

John nodded and smiled at her, sipping his tea. “Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”

\--

“Here,” John caught the item easily, frowning as he looked at the odd symbol before recognizing it as the same one that Dean had tattooed over his heart. Dean mentioned Sam had a similar one, and that it had been put there after something bad had happened to him, involving demons. John put it on as Dean waved him over, the group of kids that followed him around also sporting a few of the symbols, some sewn into their clothing and others with necklaces, looking them over. “Also got this,” he held up a bracelet to put on John’s right wrist. “It’ll help against…” he stopped, letting out a sigh, “it’s basic protection for dreams, from some of the stuff that can go into one. Not everything, but most of them, and…well, I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Tell me you two aren’t gonna snog,” Higgins said, wrinkling his nose in disgust. Dean reached over quickly to ruffle his hair, pulling him in getting the kid to struggle before releasing him.

“We’re not. Brat,” Dean said, though he looked over the group fondly. It dawned on John that Dean was, perhaps, the best person to speak to children or troubled youth, if only because he seemed to understand them. “I wanna make sure you all are safe. Now, what did I tell you all?”

The kids repeated dutifully, “If it’s something odd that the police can’t handle, talk to John or Dean.”

John blinked, “Wait, what?”

“I figured you’d rope me into it, like with this last one,” Dean said with a shrug. “Have you heard from that guy…Greg?”

John nodded, letting out a breath. “It’s still a bit hard for him, but even with the warpath, it helps that…well, that we were right. There are a few unsolved murders but they’re unsolved for various reasons, and Sherlock wasn’t brought in on most of them. I think Mycroft’s finally starting to flex some muscles.”

It was about time too. John didn’t know if he should feel sorry for Mycroft or not, but he was glad the man had stopped wallowing in the guilt he’d felt and started to set things right, especially where Greg was concerned. The few talks they’d had about Mycroft’s rather creepy ideas on how to get people to watch over his brother had John feeling quite glad the man was stopping most of his whole government spy setup. Greg’s ‘initiation’ had been harsher, as Mycroft had demanded more of his time to watch over Sherlock, but at the same time, Greg had related to John that he’d mostly done it for Sherlock, for the person he’d seen briefly and knew was there, despite the drugs and verbal abuse he so easily threw out.

“Good on him,” Dean said, sitting back as he looked around. He’d found a dumping area that some of the kids went to for scrap metal and had been working on a few things from there, apparently jewelry or something similar. It always amazed John that Dean had a wide variety of skills and never quite tried them all out. He looked up and handed a few more over to Victor and Higgins. “Here, hand them out to the others. I know, some will say it’s girly, but it’s either that or my having to find their asses and perform an exorcism.”

“Anything like the movie?” Higgins asked, eyes wide as Dean frowned at him, obviously thinking he shouldn’t have seen that movie when he looked so young.

“Trust me, it’s worse,” Dean told them, Raz looking over a few of the symbols in the book and Dean glancing at him. “Don’t tell me…you want a few.”

“Be nice. Probably cause a bit of commotion.”

Dean considered before handing Raz a piece of paper, explaining which ones were Traps and which were for banishing or protection, John moving to sit next to him and smile a bit.

“What?”

“Nothing, just…Mary is wondering when you’ll adopt them all.”

“Shut up.”

That surprised a laugh out of John, the first since that day, and Dean managed to smile at that. John was gland. Maybe they would be alright.


End file.
